


Magna Cum Laude

by blackmountainbones, BobSkeleton



Series: Professor Barratt [2]
Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Asphyxiation, Choking, Dom/sub, Gender-neutral Reader, Light BDSM, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Reader-Insert, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threesome, magna cum laude jokes, unbeta'd we die like men, we're not even sorry, you have graduated with a 4.0 in Filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29412879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: It’s graduation day, and Professor Barratt has given you your diploma and an order to wait for him in his office. Then Professor Fielding shows up unexpectedly...
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding, Julian Barratt/Reader, Noel Fielding/Reader
Series: Professor Barratt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160714
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Magna Cum Laude

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to Professor Barratt and a shameless study in kink.... our professors would be so proud. 
> 
> Also this hasn't been beta'd, but we've both been so busy we figured it was best to just get it out before it languished for another 5 months in our drafts. Enjoy!

You stand in line off to the side of the main stage in the auditorium of St Helena’s University, carefully placed in alphabetical order. Your classmates chitter excitedly around you, fussing with scratchy polyester robes, adjusting tassels, fixing their hair. 

You’re nervous, but excited. The last four years of hard work is about to pay off. 

The Dean calls the name of the student two spots ahead of you. You watch as they cross the stage, shake hands with the Dean, and receive a diploma from Professor Barratt. 

Oh, Professor Barratt. 

Your arrangement has worked wonderfully. For the past six months, you’ve become a regular during Professor Barratt’s office hours--and after. Your academics have improved, but that’s not all you’ve learned from him. You’ve learned how to give and receive pleasure with wanton, reckless abandon. 

Just seeing him now, dressed in his academic regalia, sends a shiver down your spine. He’s so refined, but you know beneath the robes and dignity, he is filthy as an old shoe. Something warm you identify as jealousy curls in your stomach, watching him smile warmly at one of your fellow students, as he takes their hand in his own, strong, large hand--hands you would know by feel alone, now--and shakes it. It’s all part of the custom, but you want him for yourself. 

The sight of his large hand wrapped around their dainty one reminds you it’s been ten days since you’ve been fucked. The realization makes you shift uncomfortably, and you cross your legs, willing your desire to wait. The student in front of you is called, and you squirm again. As Professor Barratt hands over their diploma and shakes their hand, he meets your eye over their shoulder--a look that could kill. Your lips part involuntarily and you sigh, hoping to breathe out your lust. He cocks a brow at you, and you know it hasn’t worked when your insides clench with desire. 

At last, your name is called. You step carefully on to the stage and hope the crowd of onlookers can’t tell how aroused you are, imagining Professor Barratt “congratulating” you later. Maybe on his desk, or the floor in his office, or Professor Fielding’s art studio… 

You misstep and Julian catches you, his grip tight around your wrist. 

Your eyes meet his, and warmth floods you--embarrassment for having tripped in front of the assembly at your graduation, but moreso because his pupils are dilated. He  _ wants  _ you. 

Regaining composure, he helps you stand and you right your stupid graduation cap. As tradition dictates, he extends his hand for you to shake. You do, feeling the familiar warmth and grip of it as his other hand gives you a diploma. It’s not real. The real one will be sent by post later. Gently he reaches out and switches your tassel from the right side to the left. You shiver, imagining those deft fingers tangled in your hair later. 

A flash goes off and you realize that there will be a shitty photograph commemorating this moment, and that you’ll buy it because it’s the only one of the two of you together that exists. 

“Congratulations,” he whispers. You dare a wink. The corner of his lip twitches in a knowing smile. Your audacity might be punished later--if you’re lucky. 

  
  


After the ceremony, you steal through the darkened, quiet halls to Professor Barratt’s office. The lights are out, all the offices empty, the only sound your robe swishing as you walk.

The door opens easily--it’s unlocked, just as Professor Barratt told you it would be when he texted you this morning, telling you to wait for him after the ceremony. He’d hinted that he had something special for you in mind, and your stomach clenches to think about what that could be, glancing around the room for a hint. Professor Barratt’s office is a mess, as always, but you know this mess. There’s the inkstain on his desk, when you tipped over the bottle of fountain pen ink because he was fucking you on top of it. The pile of papers on the floor, which he tossed to the ground to ravish you last week. This office is filthy, but so are you.

You don’t bother to clean. Instead, you turn on the kettle, searching the mess for a teacup that passes for clean as you wait for it to whistle.

The door creaks open. You’re certain it’s Professor Barratt. “I’m just making tea... Would you like a cup, Sir?”

The person cackles. He’s not Professor Barratt. “Sir? I could get used to you calling me that.”

You turn. It’s Professor Fielding. He’s wearing a long, loose women’s blouse and a pair of silly boots: these ones are heeled and studded. The studs suit his shaggy hair and insouciant attitude. There’s something about him, just looking at him--you know he doesn’t play by the rules. He gives you one of those rakish grins you’ve come to know so well, the tip of his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

“Professor Fielding? I thought you had graduation practice.”

Professor Fielding shrugs and steps closer. His hip nudges the desk, and he leans on one leg like a flamingo. “The Art College doesn’t graduate until the end of the week. I don’t have to worry about that nonsense for another three days. And besides, I’m not on the committee, running myself ragged--”

The teakettle whistles. You busy yourself pouring water over the teabags, placing one of the steaming cups on the desk in front of him. Professor Fielding pays it no mind. He’s still looking at you, still giving you that sideways smile, reminding you that Professor Barratt has been so tied up with the rehearsals and endless administrative tasks that he hasn’t had time to fuck you since last week, when he threw his pile of undergrad of essays to the ground. They haven’t moved since then; he’s probably not been in here, racing around as he has been from meeting to meeting.

Your insides clench, reminding you it’s been ten days since you’ve been properly fucked. You sit down and cross your legs, trying to relieve the ache. It only makes it worse.

Professor Fielding notices. He sidles a little closer. The lacy fringe on his frilly blouse kisses softly over your skin. It makes you feel warm all over. “Grad season is such a drag. Every year, he complains, and I tell him to step down from the committee, but does he listen? No.” Professor Fielding rolls his eyes. “Can you believe he hasn’t fucked me in five days?” 

“It’s been over a week for me,” you say, trying not to sound too desperate as you cross your legs more tightly, trying to ease the throb between your legs.

“Poor pet,” sighs Professor Fielding. He reaches out and touches your hair, just the barest hint of a touch. It sends tingles down your spine. You both know he shouldn’t, but neither of you make any effort to stop. “You  _ are  _ a pretty thing.” Before you can stop it, he’s leaning in towards you, placing a kiss against your temple. His stubble is completely different against your skin from Professor Barratt’s, coarser, and you sigh, heat pooling between your legs. 

“We shouldn’t,” you protest, but it’s the most half-arsed thing you’ve ever said. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” whispers Professor Fielding with a smirk. 

“Professor, I--”

“Please,” he says against your skin, “call me Noel.” 

“Noel,” you say weakly, the name foreign in your mouth. He sucks his name off your lips with a kiss, wrapping an arm around you to bring you flush against his body. 

You’ve played together before, but never like this, just the two of you. Noel is different when Professor Barratt isn’t around--softer, kinder. Even his kiss tastes different--like bubblegum and mischief. It makes you wonder what kind of dom Noel would be if he was given the chance, but the thought doesn’t last long. He presses into you, and you can feel his erection through his tight jeans. You press back against it, and Noel breaks the kiss to moan into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “I need to get off so badly. You must need it even more.” 

“Yes,” you moan. Noel slides his hands beneath the collar of the graduation gown and sends it pooling to the floor. His hand dips between your legs, teasing you there--hands you know well, but not hands that ever touch you without being ordered to first. He kneads at you through your dress trousers, pressing at the seam with his knuckles to hone in on your sensitive spots, not bothering to tease before he drops down to his knees and undoes your fly.

The back of his hand brushes against you through your underwear. You’re already wet, and when he teases you, you can feel yourself drip into the fabric. “Mmm, so wet already,” he murmurs. “You must be gagging for it.”

You’re about to tell him that you’d gladly gag on his cock when he surprises you by stripping off your pants and underwear, leaving you in nothing but your white button-down shirt, then dives between your legs. 

Noel hasn’t shaved, and his stubble brushes against your thighs and the tip of his nose slips against your hole. He takes a deep breath, then his tongue snakes out to tease you with long, slow licks, letting you whine and beg for more before he gives it to you. He and Professor Barratt have taught you how to be shameless, and you can feel him smiling against you as you cry out in pleasure; the muscles in his cheeks crinkle around his grin, making his stubble rasp against your sensitive inner thighs.

You want to tell him to stop fucking around and get to it, but you do so love to be teased. And Professor Fielding knows this, and uses it to his advantage, alternating between long, languid licks and quick, driving thrusts of his tongue.

You’re so close--he’s teasing at the edges of your opening with his pointed tongue. You’re so distracted by your desire that you jerk in surprise when one of Noel’s fingertips insinuates itself inside you, its passage made easy by his saliva. He crooks his finger, aiming for your spot, and you spasm around him. “Make me come, make me come, make me--”

But then the door creaks open on its ancient, rusting hinges. Noel continues eating you out--perhaps he hasn’t heard. You lift your gaze from watching Noel’s nose nuzzle between your legs: Professor Barratt is standing in front of the open door, wearing a rumpled sportcoat and three-day beard. His small brown eyes are narrowed into slits, tongue teasing at his overgrown moustache--its bristles have begun to obscure his upper lip.

The room is silent and still except for Noel’s head bobbing between your legs as you and Julian watch each other. The fluorescent light of the hallway flickers through the open door. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could hear,  _ see. _

Noel chooses that moment to press his fingertip against your spot again. Your insides clench around him, the knot of arousal growing tighter in your belly, and you cry out--

Professor Barratt lets the door slam shut, but he doesn’t bother to lock it. It’s loud--Noel has to have heard it, but he keeps rubbing at your spot and tonguing between your legs, not even breaking the rhythm of his licks.

Until Professor Barratt clears his throat. “I don’t remember giving you two permission to play with each other.” His voice has come out in a growl, possessive and dangerous. 

Noel removes his face from between your legs. His lips and cheeks and chin glisten wetly in the fading light. You blush, but Noel grins cheekily, not a single iota of shame on his face. “I wasn’t aware we needed permission.”

Something dark flashes across Professor Barratt’s face. He crosses the room in long, quick strides; he’s looming over the two of you. His moustache is overgrown and hair frizzy with lack of care--he’s been run ragged by his duties for today’s commencement, and probably hasn’t been home long enough to shower and shave in days, much less get off. And when Professor Barratt hasn’t gotten off in a few days, he can be especially cruel. 

Not saying a further word, Professor Barratt shucks his billowy ceremonial robe. Noel had teased him yesterday about looking like “a fucking conquistador,” and you had smirked in agreement, but now there’s nothing funny about the way he sheds his regalia. He rolls up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, exposing forearms corded with muscle and a fuzz of fine hair. 

Professor Barratt reaches into the pocket of his robe, emerging with a golden cord. Your eyes widen, wondering what (or rather, who) he plans to use it for. 

“Ooh,” says Noel, “gold. That’s for cum laude, innit?” He grins saucily as he says the words, pronouncing them “cum loud.” 

“They’re for you,” growls Professor Barratt. With no gentleness he pulls Noel away from you, roughly wiping his chin of saliva. He yanks on Noel’s hair, putting him in place--on his knees, away from you. 

Professor Barrat secures the cord around Noel’s wrists with a double knot, sliding a finger under the rope to check the tension. He lets the cord snap back cruelly. “Closest you’ll get to cum laude, you tart,” Professor Barratt says. “You’re not coming at all tonight, not until I say so. 

Noel whines, a high, breathy, petty sound in the near silence of the room. Your hole twitches, reminding you that you’d been on the brink of coming before Professor Barratt interrupted you. 

Your insides throb, and you let out a disappointed moan. 

Professor Barratt smiles cruelly, but Noel just shrugs, looking disappointed. His bound wrists moving up and down the small of his back in tandem with the movement of his shoulders. “Sorry, pet,” he sighs. “We were so close, too.” 

“Enough,” says Julian. “Put your back-talking mouth to good use,” he commands as he thrusts Noel’s face back between your legs. 

Noel doesn’t waste any time--he dives right in, nose-first. You’re still loose from his earlier attentions, and his tongue slides past your outer walls easily. You cry out, gripping the edge of the desk to keep your shaking legs from giving out under you.

Julian watches, stalking around the pair of you. You meet his eyes--they are bright and dark with annoyance and possessiveness. “So, you got bored? Has it been too long? Do you really need it so badly?”

Noel chooses that moment to withdraw his tongue and close his lips over your opening, sucking gently. “Yes!” you cry out. 

Julian tuts. In a conversational tone, one at odds with the cruelty of his words, he asks, “I suppose it was foolish of me to expect you to be good and obedient, but going to  _ him _ ?” He yanks on cord binding Noel and Noel moans, the sound vibrating from hips lips up between your legs and into the core of you. Professor Barratt lets Noel go and turns his attention back to you.

You’re light-headed from the cresting pleasure of Noel’s mouth on you--you hardly notice Professor Barratt edging toward you until he drags a finger up from your sternum to your jaw. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ come,” he commands, gripping your chin in his hand. “If you come for Professor Fielding, you’ll look back on ten days fondly.” 

Noel responds by sliding another finger inside of you. The stretch makes you let out a sigh---you’re close. If you hadn’t been interrupted by Professor Barratt, you’re sure that Professor Fielding would have let you come by now. 

“Get that hole nice and wet,” Julian breathes. He’s standing so close you feel the words more than hear them. He’s got your jaw in his hand, and his pinkie finger taps against your throat once, twice, before it sidles down to grip you by the neck.

Your eyes widen. You’ve played this game before, once or twice. But not like this.The finger against your jaw slides languidly up and down the column of your throat. Noel’s kneeling open-mouthed between your legs, tonguing and fingering you, but it’s the whisper-soft touch of Professor Barratt’s finger on your fevered skin that threatens to send you over the edge. 

“You’re both such sluts. Can’t go without it for more than a day without gagging for it,” Professor Barratt murmurs, but you can see the erection tenting his tweed trousers. You want it in your mouth, saliva pooling under your tongue at the thought. As though he can hear when you’re thinking, he tightens his grip around your neck. “So filthy. So naughty,” he murmurs against your skin. “So disobedient.” His right hand steals down to tweak at your nipples through your shirt before wrapping around the other side of your neck. 

You know what’s happening, and you moan out loud, desperate, wanton. 

“Shh,” Professor Barratt hushes, but it’s not soothing. It’s an order. 

His long, deft fingers encircle your throat and squeeze. 

The first few seconds pass normally. But then, the desperate need for air hits all at once. Your mouth falls open, suddenly desperate for breath but you know there won’t be any. Not anytime soon. 

Professor Barratt increases the pressure slowly, one finger at a time. With the tightening of each, your windpipe compresses a little more, and your head starts to pound; the blood rushes in your ears. “You were so, so bad,” he rasps in your ear. “You deserve this, don’t you?”

You try to say yes, but the word dies, a gurgle in your throat. Professor Barratt tightens his grip. Last time, he left red marks. This time, you wonder if it will bruise. But the thought flits away--because Noel’s massaging your spot, pressing down on it with deep, hard strokes as he sucks on your opening, because your chest is burning and black spots creep in around the edge of your vision. 

The black dots multiply, like pointillism that grows and takes up your entire field of vision. You can’t see anything through the tunnel, can’t hear anything through the blood in your ears, can’t get enough air. Through it all, you feel Noel’s mouth on your hole, sucking frantically, the tip of his tongue thrusting into you the only thing you can feel over the need for air. Your chest feels coiled tight, not unlike the rest of your body, which is thrumming like a wire.

Professor Fielding taps against your spot, and you gasp. It dies in your throat, a reedy gurgle, nothing more. Professor Barratt taps his pinkie finger against your throat, and the black spots explode-- 

The moment before your vision fades, Professor Barratt releases his hold on you and you gasp in a breath. Stars cloud your vision, the blood rushes from your head, and your lungs fill, breathing deeply. You’re so lightheaded, so weak… you slump against the desk, Noel’s attention to your hole combined with the drug-like sensation of oxygen hitting your bloodstream causing your orgasm to shudder through you. Your insides tighten around his fingers, your opening sucks at his tongue, and you open your mouth to cry out--

You cough, choking for air, come violently, your entire body clenching and unclenching as you force the air into your lungs. Your legs won’t stop trembling, and you slump even further over the desk. Professor Barratt eases your head down gently, cradling your cheek between his palm and the hard wooden surface of the desk, the hands that took the air from you suddenly tender. 

“Good. So good, darling,” he murmurs in your ear. “You took your punishment so well.” He sucks your earlobe into his hot, wet mouth and you spasm around Professor Fielding’s tongue until Professor Barratt pulls his face away from you by his hair.

You lay lightheaded against the desk, breathing hard, coughing intermittently, covered in sweat and come and Noel’s saliva. You’re oblivious to what’s happening until an indelicate slurp rouses you. You sit up slowly and see Noel sucking off Professor Barratt with the same enthusiasm he’d shown you. 

You watch appreciatively as Professor Barratt’s hips stutter and he comes inside Noel’s mouth. Noel swallows every drop, and Professor Barratt tenderly runs a hand through his hair. Noel’s erection is red and angry and weeping, but Professor Barratt merely says, “Not tonight. Let’s see if  _ you  _ can make it ten days.” 

Professor Barratt turns back to you, tucking himself back into his pants. He grabs the university logo throw blanket off the back of his wingback chair and spreads it across his lap as he sits. “Come here, little one,” he says, his voice softer than it had been before. 

On shaking limbs you go, sitting on his knee. He pulls you in close, arms wrapping around you, enfolding you safely in his lap and wrapping the blanket around you. You feel cold, the sweat cooling and drying on your skin. 

“There,” he says, as you nuzzle against his neck. “You did very well. You were so naughty, but I know what a lothario Professor Fielding can be,” he rumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Warmth floods you--Professor Barratt is a strict dom, but he always makes you feel so loved and safe. “It’s his fault, isn’t it?”

You look up and meet his eyes and nod. 

“Sellout,” Noel calls from across the room. 

Professor Barratt’s lips quirk into a tight smile. “We’ll have to punish him for seducing you. Do you think he can last another five days?” 

“No,” you try to say, but your voice is hoarse, a raspy whisper. 

“Poor little pet,” says Professor Barratt. “You’ll need to rest your throat. Drink some warm tea. Perhaps Professor Fielding can get us some when he’s not all tied up.” 

You nod, and nuzzle your head into Professor Barratt’s broad, comfortable shoulder. Your eyes slip shut as he traces comforting circles on your back. 

“Congratulations, by the way. You’ve graduated magna cum laude,” he whispers to you, just before you fall asleep. 


End file.
